Marvel Mystery Comics: Featuring the SubMariner
by Scottenkainen
Summary: Back to the Golden Age!  It's 1941 and Namor the Sub-Mariner still waffles between being friend or foe to humanity.  Can Betty Dean keep him friend long enough to help win the War?
1. Chapter 1

By Scott Casper

Russia in January was really, really cold. The kind of cold that made metal freeze, engines stall, and soldiers just roll over and die at their posts. Flying a plane was perilous business in this weather for all sorts of reasons so it was no surprise that only three Soviet fighters - Lavochkin-Gorbunov-Gudkov LaGG-3's - had scrambled from Vnukovo International Airport three minutes ago and arrived in time to intercept the mystery aircraft flying towards Moscow.

By the time the Russian pilots could see the speeding aircraft, they could tell that they had no chance to overtake it. The best they could do was fall in behind it and try to keep up. Attempts to raise a response from the aircraft were met with radio silence. And still they flew closer to Moscow.

"Engage and destroy!" came a harsh Russian voice over the headset of each pilot. Their trigger fingers squeezed and wing-mounted ShKAS machine guns, synchronized with a larger machine gun mounted on the engine, answered with deadly chatter.

Aboard the mystery aircraft, the crew observed they were under attack and turned to their leader. "Sir, their guns pose a threat," one said in Atlantean. "We could boost power to the rear electrical shields…"

"Suffering shad! And slow us down more? I won't tolerate anymore delay. Just take evasive maneuvers!"

"Yes, sir!" the pilot responded.

By the time the evening lights of Moscow could be seen as a glow on the horizon, two fighters had joined the chase, three had fallen back, one held the distance and the last was slowly gaining.

The commander of the mystery aircraft impatiently rapped his fingers on the arm of his seat and stared out the window next to him. "Enough of this!" he said with a wave of his hand. "I will get to Moscow on my own from here! Lose or dispatch the planes pursuing us, it doesn't matter to me, but be back here to pick me up in two hours, understood?"

"Yes, my lord!" the crew said as one.

Outside, there were now a dozen fighter planes the Red Army had scrambled in pursuit of the Atlantean airship, all at varying distances from their quarry.

"Good," Namor the Sub-Mariner said as he stood up and moved to the door in the side of the cabin. "Then it's time to give Joe a little visit."

If Prince Namor of Atlantis noticed the icy cold wind when he emerged from the moving aircraft, he gave no indication of it, despite wearing nothing but black swim trunks. He jumped out and quickly began to lose forward inertia. Instead of being concerned with how close the nearest fighter plane was to being right on top of him, Namor simply spun around in mid-air, waited until the plane was close enough beside him, and punched a hole through the wing. Instead of letting go, he held the wing and swung his body around onto the top of it. He ran up the wing to the body of the plane, slid over the top of it, and punched his hands through the canopy. Ignoring the panicking pilot inside, Namor simply jerked on the plane and, with his bare hands, managed to angle it away from the sharp left bank it had gone into when he landed on the wing. He found that he had overcompensated and the plane was banking to the right now, so he jerked it back a little the other way. Now confident that the plane was entirely in his power, Namor smiled and began looking down over either side for Moscow.

Meanwhile.

Moscow. Vnukovo Airport Control Tower.

"Do you 'zuppose eetz 'zome new German 'zpy plane?" Commander Aleksashkin asked in the Russian tongue to the lieutenant at his side.

"Zir, leesen to this!" a soldier interrupted, taking off his headphones and holding them up for Commander Aleksashkin.

The commander unfolded his arms from behind his back, took the offered headphones and held them up to one ear.

"Help!" he heard through the headphones. "My plane haz' been commandeered! Repeat, I am not in control of my plane!"

"Ridiculous," Commander Aleksashkin said. "How can someone commandeer a one-man fighter plane in mid-air? When he landz', have that pilot court-martialed for beink' drunk on duty."

"Zir," said the soldier on RADAR monitor duty. "I'm trackink' that pilot. He'z broken off from chasink' the unidentified aircraft and headink' this way."

"I want 'wisual confirmation!" Commander Aleksashkin called out.

Two soldiers stood at the west-facing tower windows with binoculars at the ready. It did not take them long. "Zir!" one of them called out. "He'z comink' in low! He lookz' like he'z comink in for an emergency landink'!"

"He'z nowhere near the airstripz', 'zir!" cried the other. "He'z headink' straight for Red Square!"

"No!" the commander cried in alarm. He snatched away the binoculars to see for himself, then sprinted across the room to the phone on the wall and put the receiver to his ear. "Lieutenant, 'zend all emergency 'wehicles to Red Square at once! I want a full regiment of troops there! Eef there eez no explanation for the pilot's behavior, they will act az' heez' firing squad on the spot." Putting the phone down from his ear, he shouted for all to hear, "What are you standink' around for? I want 50 of our planez' 'een the air, 'eef that's what it takes to brink' that plane down!"

Thirty seconds later.

Moscow. Red Square.

Warnings to stay off the streets blared from loudspeakers mounted on transport trucks carrying soldiers, but some people still dared look outside at the fighter plane that came roaring into the square, skittering and skipping off the pavement in a shower of sparks and debris. Most remarkable was the near-naked man riding atop it like a circus performer standing on horseback. The man had pulled cables loose from the cabin and held them up like reins. He was easing the plane down, touching down just enough to slow their momentum, but not bearing down hard enough to roll and crash. But there was not enough square. The plane had stalled at 100 MPH and was in total free fall now – nothing more than a guided missile when it hit the far wall of the square and exploded in a fireball right at the base of the Kremlin. Its mysterious pilot had jumped clear seconds beforehand and was standing in the middle of Red Square, surrounded by an entire regiment of soldiers.

To Lieutenant Yatskaya's eyes, the man before them could have been a statue of a Greek god come to life, so perfectly chiseled seemed his muscular frame. Yet there was something disturbingly triangular about the shape of his head and the widow's peak of his brown-black hair only and his narrow chin only exaggerated the V-shape of his face. His eyes seemed unnaturally wide and he looked through eyes half-closed, as if wincing from the sunlight though it was a mostly cloudy day. And his ears were unnaturally tall and pointy. At the lieutenant's signal, his men raised their PPSh sub-machine guns and took aim.

What no one expected was for the mysterious stranger to take to the air again – on his own! No one had noticed the tiny wings on the ankles of the stranger that flapped as if the man had birds in his feet, nor would ever have guessed that they would let the man vault into the air with such speed. Before anyone could react, he had reached Lieutenant Yatskaya, snatched him off his feet with one hand, and continued flying ahead as if he was burdened by no extra weight at all.

The stranger yelled a question that Yatskaya recognized as English. "Where is Stalin?"

One minute later.

The Kremlin. Office of Comrade Joseph Stalin.

The door burst open so abruptly that Joe Stalin dropped the papers from his hand. Commissar Badenov leaned in and yelled, "Comrade, you must e'wacuate at once!"

Stalin knew Badenov would not dare interrupt him unless it was important. "A German attack?" Stalin asked.

"_Nyet_. Worse," Badenov answered. "A truck is waiting for you this way."

They took the back stairs at the end of a long hall and came to a back door. A transport truck was backed up to the door with its motor running. Badenov had an auto pistol out in one hand and pushed Stalin into the back of the truck with the other. "Go! Go! Move!" Badenov yelled for the driver.

As the driver shifted the truck into gear, there came a rumbling from the wall behind them and a fist punched some stones out of the wall from the inside. When the driver saw in his rear view mirror the Sub-Mariner knocking a bigger hole in the wall large enough for him to jump through, the driver nearly panicked and jumped out of the truck before he shifted gears again and floored the accelerator.

Commissar Badenov, hanging onto the back of the truck, emptied seven out of eight rounds from his TT-30 semi-automatic pistol at the Sub-Mariner, but the bullets did not seem to faze him. Indeed, the horrifically powerful merman sprinted after the truck and began to overtake it even as it came up to speed. Badenov's last hope was to aim a bullet at the Sub-Mariner's eye at point blank range, but the Sub-Mariner's speed was too great. Before Badenov could aim, Namor seized him by the arm and tossed him out of the moving truck.

Leaping into the back, Namor saw Joseph Stalin cringing at the rear of the compartment. "I would have words with you, if you can be man enough to stand still and hear them," Namor said angrily as he strode forward, grabbed hold of Stalin's shirt, and lifted them both into the air and hovered in place so that the truck moved on without them.

It was not a public street on which Namor and Stalin faced each other. Commissar Badenov was lying on the ground, stunned, some distance behind them.

Joe Stalin looked around. He had 10,000 troops stationed in Moscow and, somehow, not one of them had shown up yet to save him. Determined to buy himself some time, he straightened his shoulders, looked Namor in the eye, and said, "How dare you? How dare you come here and attack me like 'theez? Do you know who I am?"

"Nooo, I thought this was the Joe Stalin of Hoboken, New Jersey," Namor said, emulating the sarcastic tone he had heard countless times in New York. "I trust you know who I am. I am Prince Namor of Atlantis. And I trust you know that the United States of America is an ally of Atlantis."

"You 'eediot! Russia eez' not at war 'weeth the United States! It eez' at war 'weeth Germany!"

Namor raised and pulled back his fist. Stalin cringed and covered his face. "I will be the bigger man and let that slide this once," Namor said, but it was clear from his voice that he was restraining some terrible anger. Namor slowly un-tensed and lowered his fist. "I am sure you are also aware that the Japanese recently attempted to invade the United States by building a secret tunnel from Siberia.* I found them and stopped them. But then I checked a world atlas, and guess who I found is in charge of Siberia? You, Comrade Stalin. And yet, somehow you would have me believe that the Japanese Army somehow snuck into Siberia and spent months building a tunnel that you knew nothing about?"

(*Marvel Mystery Comics #17)

Soldiers started to appear at both ends of the street and on all the surrounding rooftops. Stalin looked up and around and turned to Namor again with more conviction in his voice. "Siberia eez' a 'wast, dez'olate country!" Stalin protested loudly. "Yez', the Japaneez' moved through our territoriez', but 'eet was not with our knowledge! Japan eez' no friend of Russia's!"

Namor looked around at the machine guns being aimed at him from all sides. "Fine," he said, matching Stalin for loudness. They were both playing to a packed house now. "I will accept your word, for now. Consider my visit here a reminder, then. Keep a better watch on your borders, Joe, or next time something like that happens, I'll come back and I won't be so nice!"

Stalin turned his back on Namor and walked back to where some soldiers had just helped Commissar Badenov back on his feet. Stalin walked past Badenov and motioned for him to follow. Soldiers were already throwing a tarp over the hole Namor had broken through the back wall of the Kremlin. Stalin went to the door, not ten feet away, and opened it. He looked back to Namor, standing with his arms crossed in the middle of a street full of armed soldiers. "Give heem' to the count of five to surrender and then keel' the idiot," Stalin said to Badenov, but loud enough to be heard by others around them. Then Stalin shut the door behind him.

A deafening roar of gunfire erupted outside almost at once, so loud that Stalin threw up his arms to protect himself from the noise itself. Then the door he had just shut burst off its hinges into the stairwell and Namor bounded in after it.

"I told you I'd forgive you only once!" Namor said. Then he punched Stalin in the face. Before Stalin could pick himself up off the floor, though, Namor was gone again, having flown away and out of sight.

NEXT ISH: Namor's returns to NYC for a heart-to-heart with Betty Dean!


	2. Chapter 2

It was not Spring yet in Manhattan, but the ground was already thawing out, the only snow left on the streets was a little black slush in the gutters, and there were more than a few good days for being outdoors in less than one's heaviest winter gear.

Though Prince Namor, the Sub-Mariner of Atlantis, was no stranger to New Yorkers by now, it was still surprising to see him out and about for a casual stroll. In typical Namor fashion, he had stubbornly refused to put on a coat, galoshes, or even so much as a pair of pants so as to attract less attention; his only concession being the black shorts that he wore to make Betty happy.

Betty Dean had trouble remembering the last time she thought she was happy. It had been over a year since she was first assigned the task of dealing with Namor – a heady responsibility for one of New York City's only serving policewomen. Somewhere along the way, someone forgot to ever assign Betty to anything else. Betty had become a specialist of sorts, referred to in the department now as "that Namor-girl." This was, admittedly, slightly better than being known as "that skirt" or "that dame". Actually, in Betty's heart, she had to admit that she had often enjoyed the excitement of dealing with Namor. Just not now. Not after what he just told her.

"You punched Stalin in the face?"

"Yes, Betty. Not so hard that it killed him. I just wrapped him with my knuckles hard enough to make sure it stung."

"You punched _Stalin_ in the _face_?" she asked again, making sure she heard that right.

"Yes. Betty." Namor spoke rigidly through tightened lips, like he was talking to a child that was annoying him. Or like he was holding back his temper.

Betty tried to calm down and hold back the sound of incredulity – incredulity mixed with exasperation – that might have made Namor go off on one of his outbursts. Betty might be the only human on Earth who had a chance of talking to him in that tone of voice without thousands of dollars in property damage ensuing, but she was not going to take any chances. "Namor, have you been following politics lately?" she began again, making sure her voice betrayed no sarcasm. "There's this war going on between Britain and Germany right now and, for the moment, Russia is staying on the sidelines not really helping either side. Now, suppose Stalin holds a little grudge about this face-punching thing and decides he wants to throw in completely with Germany and both of them then go to war with Atlantis."

"Then we'd crush him," Namor said decidedly.

"Yes, well, suppose he doesn't decide to attack Atlantis, but he lends troops to Germany instead. Do you think the British would be able to hold off them both?"

"We don't have a treaty with Britain!" Namor laughed, as if Betty was telling jokes.

"But you've been helping them!" Betty exclaimed. She threw up her hands in his face, as if that would help her get through to him. "Namor, you've been destroying Nazi U-boats for months now and protecting British naval ships! That's practically an act of war against Germany!"

"I just don't like bullies," Namor said, shrugging her off. He continued walking down the sidewalk.

Betty watched Namor walk ahead of her. He had, she knew, the strength to tear buildings in half with his bare hands. With his undersea kingdom and their impossibly advanced technology he could probably conquer the U.S. if he ever put his mind to it long enough. Yet, to him, the Nazis were just "bullies". Stalin could be dealt with by a punch in the nose. Namor, for all his power, saw the world with the naivete of a high school student and that made her shiver inside her winter coat.

"Namor, wait," Betty said, not wanting him to get too far ahead. Her heels clicked on the sidewalk and her skirt swished in the chilly winter breeze. Her legs were thankfully protected by the luxury of nylon hose. As undressed as he was, she could observe every hard, rippling muscle in Namor, from the back of his neck right next to his gills down to the heels of his feet right next to the feathered wings on his ankles. As used to the gills and wings as she was, it was not an unpleasant observation.

Up ahead at the next street corner was a street vendor selling hot dogs from a cart. Namor advanced to the man and held out a hand.

"A hot dog, please, good vendor," Namor said.

"That'll be five cents for a hot dog and a drink," the man said automatically. Namor's regal presence somehow did not affect the jaded New Yorker.

"I don't carry your currency, nor have a pocket to put it in," Namor said, his voice sounding like his patience was wearing thin. "I am Namor the First, Avenging Son of Atlantis and I demand a hot dog."

"It's alright, Namor," Betty said, injecting herself into the situation. She held out a nickel. "It'll be my treat."

Namor arched a long, thin eyebrow and cocked back his head while he kept a stern stare on the greedy vendor throughout the short transaction. Namor sniffed the air as the man gave the hot dog to Betty. She tore it in half and gave one half to Namor.

"Interesting combination of land mammals," Namor mused out loud as he ate his half of the hot dog. Betty tried not to think about that while she ate her half and washed it down with the drink.

As they toured more of downtown, Namor was respectfully walking around sections of broken sidewalk surrounded by police tape and 'keep off' signs. He glanced up occasionally to look at the broken facades of the buildings above. Did he recognize this street from when he and the Human Torch were battling through this way? Perhaps, Betty thought, she should mention something about it.

"Winter's not a good time for construction. It will probably be another month before crews can get to the last of the repairs," Betty observed subtly.

"Yes," Namor said passively. "I had no idea it took your people so long to rebuild things. I'm sorry for the damage we caused."

Betty was stunned. Whenever she was convinced she had to talk down to Namor, he would always turn out to know what she was talking about. Now she was half-sure that Namor really did know it was wrong to have gone to Russia and attacked Stalin, but was refusing to admit as much out of arrogance or stubbornness. But what really stunned her was that he had just apologized. She could not recall him ever doing that before.

"Come on, let's continue this up higher," Namor said as he scooped Betty up easily into one powerful arm and lifted her off the ground. Impossibly, Namor flew like a bird with the aid of those tiny ankle wings. They were approaching the rooftops in seconds.

"Th-thank you, Namor," Betty said as Namor set her down gently on the roof. "What made you want to come up here?"

"For a different perspective," Namor said with a smile, stepping up right to the edge of the roof with his hands on his hips. He looked over the cityscape spread before him, seemingly enjoying it.

Betty did too, she found. It was a sunny day and the sunlight was hitting the windows in the skyscrapers just right to look dazzling. At this distance, she could discern few distracting details of the buildings themselves. She could appreciate the aesthetics of their form, divorced from function. Not that she put it into words that way. "They're beautiful," is what she said.

Namor looked back at her and smiled. "It's easy for beings like the Human Torch and myself to become accustomed to seeing your city like this, from up this high. It's easy for us to sometimes forget that there are people in the buildings we wreck in our epic battles. We need something that grounds us when we're here. The Torch has 'human' in his name to remind him to be humble. And I have you, Betty, to tell me when I shouldn't be punching people in their faces.

_I have you, Betty_. The words made Betty shiver with delight and embarrassed at her own weakness at the same time. She did not know whether she should be mad at him or delighted with him.

"I think it's time we went back down," Betty said, trying to assert control over the situation again. She would feel safer in control, she felt.

"Not without saying something first," Namor said, suddenly coming to her and clutching her hand with unusual tenderness. "Betty, marry me."

"What?" Betty exclaimed. This was all spiraling out of control so quickly now that her head was spinning. "You want to marry me?"

"Yes, why not? Do you deny there's attraction between us?"

"I don't know about mermen, but humans don't marry based on attraction alone. Assuming I was attracted to you," Betty said, rallying and hardening herself. She appeared defiant and aloof, so much so that Namor let go of her hand. "Besides, I thought you were smitten with Lynne Harris, that girlfriend of the guy who's been trying to capture you?"

"Luther Robinson?" Namor said with a laughing sneer. "Let him tangle with me again if he likes. As for Lynne…well, she may choose me yet. Regardless, there's nothing in Atlantean law that says I can't have two wives."

Betty was not even aware that she was slapping him right on his pointy chin until she was already following through on the swing. Namor's chin could deflect bullets, but he had rolled with her slap as if her open hand were a tank shell. For a moment she just stood there, paralyzed with fear. When the moment was over, Namor might fly into a rage and tear her to pieces. There was nowhere she could run and hide where she would be safe from him. Short of the intervention of the Human Torch, there was no one who could stop him from doing anything he liked to her. She steeled herself for the worst.

"I see," was all Namor said. There was no anger in his voice. Rather, he sounded disinterested. Was this more arrogance? Betty mulled it over as Namor scooped her up in one arm again and vaulted over the side of the building. The speed of their descent nearly made her lose her earlier snack, but she held it down as Namor deposited her safely on the sidewalk again a moment later.

But what was it, if not arrogance? Had he truly lost interest in her that quickly? Had it been a test all along, to gage her reaction? Or was he really that hurt by her rejection that he could not show any feeling for her now? Without a word, Namor turned away and flew off. As Betty watched him go, she could only help but wonder what Namor would be like without a normal person grounding him and, as she thought it, a little bit of that fear crept back inside of her.

A few moments later, Betty had regained control of her senses enough to wonder how she was going to get down off that roof now…

NEXT ISH: Namor goes fishing – for U-Boats!


	3. Chapter 3

"Wir sind den 36. Breitengrad hinübergegangen," the Obersteuermann declared as the German Type VII U-Boat U-47 crossed the 36th parallel.

"Befehle, Kapitänleutnant?" the Oberleutnant asked.

Kapitänleutnant Erdmann Engel cleaned his monocle and put it back to his eye. "You know 'vell our orders, Lieutenant," Captain Engel said. "Ve are to sch'peak from this point on 'vid outrageous awksents in English to mock der Amerikaners in 'deir own territory. Now, 'kontinue on to der 'koast. Our re'konaissance ist' vital for, vid'out it, it might be another year before 've can launch Operation Drumbeat."

"Ja – I mean, yes, Kaptain!" the Lieutenant said, clicking his heels. In the cramped conning tower, it was only one step over for him to hover over where the navigator sat and listened as the navigator marked their heading. A moment later, the Lieutenant was grabbing the navigator's shoulder to help brace himself as the U-boat was rocked by some sort of collision.

"Impossible! Up periscope!" Captain Engel spat as he stumbled for the periscope. The ocean's surface was dimly lit by the twilight of a partly-cloudy sky, but if they had struck some large object, surely he could make out its silhouette…? The loud sound of metal wrenching could be heard clearly from outside the conning tower, sounding like it was coming from the fore of the boat. Swiveling the periscope around, Engel thought he could see something that looked suspiciously like the fore deck gun flying through the air in an arc from the deck out over the ocean. His further search for answers was interrupted by a similar wrenching sound on the aft end of the boat where the other deck gun was.

"Vas' ist' going on?" Engel cried in frustration. The answer soon came from below the conning tower, as cries of alarm in both German and badly accented English shouted that the ship was being boarded.

At this point, with the deck guns disabled, all Namor had to do was wait for his airship to descend and magnetically grapple the U-boat to take the whole ship and crew prisoner. That, however, would have been much more boring than going in first and subduing everyone. After carefully letting himself in through the aft deck's main hatch, Namor hopped down into the boat's galley. The roar of the engine was loud in the galley, but still some 10 Nazi seamen were loitering about here. The seamen were slow to respond, as shocking as Namor's sudden appearance was, but as soon as they recovered they charged at his back just as he was taking the tunnel that led under the conning tower. In the narrow confines of the galley, only two seamen could read Namor at a time and Namor shrugged off the first two so quickly and easily that the others fell back.

Namor strode confidently through the petty officers' quarters next on his way back to the conning tower, pausing only to grab the first petty officer he came across by the scruff of the man's shirt. "You speak English?" Namor demanded.

"Y-yes," the officer said.

"Good. Run ahead and inform your captain that he is to prepare to surrender to Prince Namor of Atlantis." Namor gave the man a little shove in the right direction for good measure and watched as the man went reeling across the quarters to the far exit. The man braced himself against the doorway as the U-Boat was shaken again, this time Namor knew by his ship's arrival.

Namor only nonchalantly strolled now towards the center of the ship, only to have the Lieutenant shoot at him with a Luger from the ladder below the conning tower up ahead. The bullets, 9 mm, fired at short range, were unlikely to leave more than small bruises on Namor's tough skin, but the impact still hurt and enraged him. His feathery ankle wings fluttered and Namor lifted off the air and floated up to where he could reach the Lieutenant. Namor grabbed the man's right arm and squeezed it. The Lieutenant screamed and dropped the Luger as his arm was broken. Namor dropped the man to the floor below them and then floated up next to the ladder until he reached the inside of the conning tower. The Captain, navigator, and the petty officer who Namor had sent on ahead were all here, horrified at the sight that had risen in front of them.

"You are all now my prisoners," Namor announced. "At this very moment, my ship is towing your ship south at great speed. You will be taken with me back to the City of Aquaria in Atlantis. Obey me and you will be treated properly. If anyone disobeys, I will flood the ship. I hope I am understood. Am I?"

"B-but…" Engel sputtered.

Namor leapt into the captain's face. "What was that?"

"I-I-I…" Captain Engel could only manage, completely flummoxed.

"Are you challenging me to single combat for your vessel? Excellent. I accept your challenge."

"But – P-Prince…" Captain Engel managed to get out before Namor had scooped him up and flew down out of the tower with him.

Eager to have more crewmen witness this, Namor pushed Engel ahead of him, past the officers' quarters, and into the crew's quarters at the quieter rear of the ship. By now, a good crowd of two dozen crewmen, just over half the crew, had either gathered in their quarters or followed Namor and the Captain to the quarters. Satisfied with his audience, Namor let them circle around as he said, "We have a while until we reach Atlantis. Your captain has that long to try and defeat me. Or until I grow bored with him. No, not with that!" he hastily admonished, swatting a no-longer concealed Luger across the cabin that had crept into the captain's trembling hands. "Cowering codfish! Be a man and use your fists!"

Captain Engel glanced about at his crew, no doubt looking for help, but everyone was looking to him to give the merman a good show. Slowly, avoiding Namor's wilting gaze, Engel forced his shaky hands to unbutton his coat while he tried to summon some courage. Perhaps to delay the inevitable, Engel raised his fists and started circling Namor in a defensive position.

"Come on, man, I didn't ask you to bore me to death! Throw a punch, if you're not a little girl!" Namor complained.

Engel tried it, with a hard right straight to Namor's unblocked abdomen. Punching Namor's abdominals was like punching the hull of the U-Boat. Engel's fingers were already sore. Namor had not even flinched.

"Well? Keep trying," Namor coaxed. "Maybe you'll get lucky."

The crew grew slowly in size as more seamen left their posts to come watch their captain fight for his life. They cheered him on and bolstered his courage. Caught up in the excitement, Engel's fear of Namor was suppressed, but the battle was still taking its toll on him even though Namor had not thrown a punch yet. After five minutes, Engel switched to leading with his left fist because he could barely feel his right hand anymore. His knuckles were cracked and bleeding and he had not found one weak spot on Namor's body that did not feel like iron. Whenever Engel tried a cheap face shot, Namor would turn his cheek to it and his cheek would hurt Engel's hands. In his desperation, Engel tried to knee Namor in the groin, but only hurt his knee. After six minutes, Engel could do little more than hurl his shoulders into Namor. After seven minutes Engel's courage started to falter, but his crew was still excited by the fight and would not break their circle to let him out. Some even tried to help by pushing their captain at Namor, but the collisions only hurt worse then.

Namor, for his part, was more interested in working the crowd than working over the Captain. He even turned his back on Engel for awhile and let his weary opponent pummel impotently on his backside while Namor made it clear to the audience that it felt like a massage. But soon after that Namor realized he was tired of this game. He turned on his opponent sharply just in time to find Engel fumbling with a knife still in its sheath, his fingers so sprained that he could not coax enough dexterity out of them to grasp the hilt of the knife and lift it out. Namor just went "tsk" and blew a deep breath on the Captain that bowled the poor man over.

The crewmen, who a moment ago had been excited by the fight, suddenly turned quiet and still as they wondered which one of them Namor would turn to next. Instead, Namor said, "I'm bored of this and when I'm bored I can be awfully violent. If you don't want me bored and violent, then I suggest you all keep me entertained by telling me everything you know about Germany's plans against the United States of America."

The state secrets started flying so rapidly that Namor was forced to restore some order and have the crew line up and spill their guts to him one at a time. Namor listened to the first dozen crewmen before losing interest again. "Where are your torpedo tubes?" he asked in the middle of his thirteenth confession. Some puzzled crewmen pointed to a ladder and hatch in the ceiling. Namor jumped to the ladder, popped the hatch, and found the forward-facing torpedo tubes. He let himself into the torpedo tube, which was a tight fit, but he dented the metal on his way out to accommodate him better. The torpedo tube served as an airlock because, by now, his ship had submerged and was transporting the captured U-Boat slowly deeper underwater. Swimming with a burst of speed, Namor ascended to his ship above the U-Boat and opened a hatch to let himself inside.

"Nice work!" Namor called out to the only occupant as he made his way to the cockpit of his ship. There, sitting at the wheel, was his cousin, Dorma.

"Well, you're in an unusually good mood to be paying compliments!" Dorma said, turning around to look as Namor came up and plopped down in the seat next to her. "Did they give you any kind of a challenge?"

"Sufferin' sailfish, no!" Namor exclaimed. "It was pretty boring, but at least I got to interrogate the crew."

"What? That wasn't our orders. All we were supposed to do was take them prisoner and get them back home. What are the royal interrogators supposed to do now?"

Namor just shrugged. "It did give me plenty to think about," he continued, ignoring her question. "The Germans, they're tough and like a good fight. I like those qualities. Their captain managed to punch me for a whole 15 minutes and I didn't think he'd last half that long. If Germany and America go to war, it might be hard to pick a side…"

"I thought your new American friends already made up your mind for you. Like that Betty Dean…" Dorma said, unable to mask the disapproval with which she spoke Betty's name.

"Nobody makes up my mind for me!" Namor shot back. "Not even Betty. You got that?"

"Okay, okay…sheesh…" Dorma said.

They rode together in silence for some time after that, until Dorma said out of the blue, "Before we left, I heard the King plans to ask you to return to America and spy on them."

"Does he?" Namor asked nonchalantly.

"If we did decide, if Tha-Korr decides to support Germany instead of the U.S…do you think you'd be able to betray your friends?"

"I suppose I will have to judge the Americans more closely on my next visit, then…" was all Namor would say.


	4. Chapter 4

Every headline of every newspaper being hawked on the street corners of Manhattan screamed the dire tidings that "Killer" Casey was on the loose! A true villain, convicted for four gang-related murders, Casey had escaped from prison in the early hours of the morning and had been on the loose all day. Everywhere was a palpable sense of menace, for "Killer" Casey had a reputation for being dangerously unpredictable and incredibly violent. Yet the diligent members of the New York Police Force did not shirk from their duties, but kept pressing every lead in their daylong manhunt of the notorious criminal.

Betty Dean had a hot tip that Casey had been seen at Squid's Bar on the Waterfront. There was no time for backup; if Casey was still there at all he would be on the move again soon. So it was that Betty found herself flinging open the front door to the bar, handgun already in hand, and shouting "Freeze!"

The scruffy, dirty inhabitants of the disreputable bar were well accustomed to hearing a command like that, but never from such a lovely voice. Some of the men complied at once out of habit, while others turned around in their seats, straining in the dim light to get a good look at this brazen, strange lady. Only one big, broad-shouldered man kept drinking at the bar, oblivious to her.

Betty looked around from face to face as she moved inside. No one looking her way, and most everyone was by now, looked like "Killer" Casey. But she had a hunch anyway that Casey was the burly guy ignoring her at the bar. "Turn around slowly, Casey, and put your hands in the air," she commanded with stern, though lovely sounding, authority.

"Alright, who ratted me out?" Casey said as he turned around. Casey was a rough-looking character with a scar that started on his forehead and ran down his left cheek. His nose was bent and his left ear was cauliflowered. His perfect, dimpled, and clean-shaven chin stood in sharp contrast. He wore a broad, black hat and a long, matching coat, but a more colorful, striped shirt underneath. "Was it you, Lewis? You were always a yellow rat."

"It wasn't me, Casey, I swear!" a scruffy, rat-faced man next to him cried as he fell off his stool backing away.

"Up with your hands, now!" Betty said, coming up behind him. As Casey started raising his hands, Betty was about to slap a cuff on him. That was when Lewis ran towards her from the side. As she was distracted, Casey spun around and grabbed her gun. The struggle was short, with the much stronger Casey tearing it from her grasp.

"Now you freeze!" Casey said, pointing her gun at Betty. "Cuff her, Lewis."

"Sure, Casey, sure…" Lewis said like he was trained to obey.

"So they send meter maids out to catch escaped cons these days?" Casey asked, obviously amused at the thought.

"I'm a cop," Betty said defiantly.

"Oh yeah? What's your name?" Casey asked with creepy interest.

Betty winced a little at the unsavory way he asked, but answered, "Officer Dean."

"Not Officer Betty Dean?" Lewis asked.

"You know her?" Casey asked.

"Don't they got no papers in the stir? A policewoman called Betty Dean is friends with that Sub-Mariner guy!"

"Is that right…?" Casey said, looking Betty over more closely than ever. "Well, you've got me interested, Officer Dean. Now you're coming with me. Oh, and Lewis? I still think you're the one who ratted me out." He turned his gun on Lewis quickly and shot him in the abdomen. Then, before the cloud of gunpowder had even cleared, he had grabbed Betty by the arm and was dragging her to the front door. "So the Sub-Mariner has a thing for you?" he asked.

"I do know him," Betty admitted. Knowing she had a gun to her back and her hands handcuffed, her ability to resist seemed limited, even though she worried about where this was going.

"So you are her!" Casey said as he led them to a parked car on the curb. It was not much of a car to look at, and looked even less good after Casey had broken the glass of the driver's side door with the butt of the pistol. He reached inside and unlocked the door, then pushed Betty roughly all the way inside to the passenger seat.

Then Betty felt his gun at the back of her head and she froze there.

"Now, stay put if you don't want a bullet in your brain," he warned. The threat worked; even after he had taken the gun away Betty kept from turning around until he had hotwired the car.

"You'll never get away with this," Betty said, regaining some of her composure. "I am friends with the Sub-Mariner. You don't want to make him mad."

"Lady, I'm 'Killer' Casey," he said as they pulled out into traffic. "I've never let anyone get in my way. I'm not about to let some fairy tale guy stop me. I don't believe in all that garbage about him bein' so strong an' all. I bet he can be stopped by a bullet just like anyone else."

"Don't be so sure about that. He's probably on his way here now right now to meet me."

"Then it's a good thing we won't be here!" Casey said. He tried to sound cool, but Betty could tell that he hit the gas pedal a little hard, like he was eager to put more distance between him and the bar now.

Betty suppressed a smile. She had a weapon to use against him after all. "Did you ever hear what he did to those criminals who flooded the subway system?"

"Yeah, I heard they got put away."

"No, did you hear what shape they were in when the police found them?"

Casey audibly gulped, but regained his composure quickly. They had long since left the Upper New York Bay area for Columbia Street. "We're stoppin' here, doll," he told her as he pulled up in front of a derelict hotel.

Betty started to struggle, preferring to be in the car than dragged into a seedy hotel, but got a smack for her defiance and decided to go along a bit farther. She glanced up and down the street, hoping to see anyone she could trust to help her, but there was no one respectable-looking in sight. Instead, she was quickly goaded into the hotel and she shivered at the sight of her options narrowing.

This sort of hotel had a narrow hallway inside the entrance instead of a nice lobby, with a barred window on the right hand side behind which was the office of the hotel manager. Casey tried to push Betty quickly past the window, but they were no more than two steps past it when they heard an old man shout at them, "Casey, is that you?"

Casey paused, perhaps considering whether to respond or ignore him, but decided to turn around, point a menacing finger at the old man, and said, "You didn't see me here."

"What were you thinking coming back here?" the old man protested anyway, perhaps feeling safe behind his window. "The cops know you used to board here. This is one of the first places they'll look and I don't need more trouble!"

"I won't be here long," Casey said. "I've got a key to Lewis' room and I just need some time to think about what to do with my insurance against the Sub-Mariner here," he said, shaking Betty by her arm at the last part.

"The Sub-Mariner! Casey, the cops are one thing, but if you're mixed up with the Sub-Mariner I want you out now! You think I can afford to have him wreck this place down around my ears?"

"Cripes! The Sub-Mariner is just a myth, Harry," Casey said angrily, coming closer to the window. "The Sub-Mariner is as likely to show up here as the Tooth Fairy!"

"I'm warning you, Casey…" the old man said anyway as he reached under his counter and started to pull out a shotgun – but Casey was faster on the draw and, with an explosion of force, old Harry was shot down right in his own office.

"Why does everybody wanna get shot today?" Casey asked with ignorant exasperation.

"And now you've blown staying here," Betty said. "Even people outside would have heard that shot."

"Shuddup, you…" Casey said, raising his pistol as if he was about to pistol whip her with it, but paused as he was busy thinking and multi-tasking was not one of his talents. "Okay, back in the car. I know where to go. Move!"

"You're leaving an awful good trail of bodies for the Sub-Mariner to follow…" Betty said as she was shoved back into the car.

"I thought I told you to shuddup!" The car's tires squealed as Casey peeled off the curb and back on the road, heading south. They rode in silence for a block before Casey said out loud to himself, "Sure is quiet…not a siren out on the road…"

"That would make sense if we were getting closer to the Sub-Mariner," Betty said. "The police would be pulling back from the area and letting the National Guard move in. Like the calm before the storm…"

Casey did not answer, but swerved hard to make a right at the next intersection and take them east. He grumbled something to himself Betty could only make out as "not so tough…"

"I've heard plenty of men say things about the Sub-Mariner like, 'he's not so tough.' Then they meet him. First they always try to look him in the eye. That's where they mess up. He doesn't have eyes like human eyes. They're just different enough that it throws you off. Then you notice that he's staring back at you. He's sized you up already and he's looking down at you like you're less than nothing to him. So you try to straighten yourself up and look as tough as you can, but then he just smirks at you and you know he's just amused at how tough you thought you were. Most guys think they have to do something then – take a swing or shoot at him or something. It doesn't matter which they pick. The Sub-Mariner doesn't know a thing about chivalry. He's not going to let you have a first crack at him just to be fair. He might put a fist through your face, rip your arm off…he can get creative, but no one stands up to him and walks away."

"That tears it," Casey said. "Look, I've never killed a dame before, but I might start with you if you say one more thing about this Sub-Mariner. Now, where is he?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Where can I find this Sub-Mariner guy? Before I blow your head off, I want you to see how easy I can take this nut down."

"Well…" Betty delayed, pretending she had to think about it. "You can backtrack where we've been and probably find him on your trail, or head straight back to the Waterfront. He prefers to stick closer to the water, you know."

"Sure…sure, that makes sense. He's supposed to be a mermaid or something, right? Okay, back to the Waterfront then. I'll show ya…" Casey swerved hard at the next right intersection, taking them back north.

Casey was not dumb enough to return to where they had started, as Betty had hoped. There would surely have been more police there by now. Instead they pulled up onto a quiet factory-lined street with a heavily obscured view of the lower Manhattan skyline. Betty had half-hoped that, if they were close enough to the Hudson, and Namor just happened to be using it at the time…but now she needed a miracle to save herself. And she got one.

Abruptly, the Sub-Mariner flew into view, off in the distance, wearing nothing but short black swimming trunks. Both Betty and Casey spotted him at once.

"He…he really can fly…" Casey said quietly.

"You want to meet him? Namor—!" Betty was cut off by Casey clapping his hand over her mouth, but it was too late. The Sub-Mariner's keen ears seemed to hear her shout his name and he turned their way to look for them.

"Yer stayin' right here, doll," Casey told Betty, his hot, boozy breath on her ear. "Remember, I ain't chivalrous neither and I'll use you fer' a shield if I gotta."

Much quicker than should have been possible with just a pair of tiny, feathery wings on his ankles, Namor the Sub-Mariner flew in a wide arc over the river until he was landing right in front of them. "Betty! Who's your friend?" Namor asked.

"Namor, this is Killer Casey. Remember you were going to be my back-up at Squid's Bar tonight when I went to arrest him?"

"I was a little offended you didn't let me handle it," Namor said, "but then I found this place where you can find those things you call dogs, but they're not made out of dog, they're made out of beef, chicken, and pork all mushed together, and…wait." For the first time, Namor started eyeing them both more critically. "He's the one with a gun out and your hands seem to be tied behind your back. Does that mean he has the upper hand?"

"Yes, Namor…" Betty said impatiently.

"Hahahaha!" Namor doubled over, holding his chiseled stomach. "Oh, that's rich! I can't believe you ever thought you were going to arrest me, and some guy like this can get the upper hand over you!"

"Just shuddup! Shuddup the both of ya!" Casey shouted, growing impatient faster than Betty. "Everyone says yer' such a tough guy, Sub-Mariner, but I don't see it. You…yer' like a big, dumb kid!"

"What did you just call me?" Namor said, suddenly all serious. He arched his eyebrows higher than any normal person could and lowered his face so his eyes were almost invisible slits under his projecting brow. "What have you been telling him about me, Betty? Why won't he look me in the eye? What kind of man says something like that about someone and then won't look him in the eye afterwards?" Namor seemed to ask Betty, but his withering gaze was trained on Casey. Namor took two steps forward.

"Stay back!" Casey shouted. Unnerved, he aimed hastily and fired his gun.

Namor leapt forward and low to the side, the bullet glancing off his shoulder. He kept one arm opened wide and used it to tackle Casey hard.

"Namor, the gun!" Betty called out to remind him that Casey was still dangerous.

"Oh, I don't think he'll be using it," Namor said casually as he took Casey's right arm in both his hands and snapped it. Namor looked away for a moment in disgust as Casey howled in pain. "You know, Betty told me a lot about you, Casey. That you were a tough man who wasn't afraid to kill to get what he wants. I might have had a use for someone like you. But you don't seem so tough at all to me. You're just a scared little man who thinks waving a gun around makes you a big shot. Still feeling big, Casey?"

"No…no…" Casey managed to say while he writhed on the ground, cradling his broken arm with his good one.

"I didn't think so," Namor said with a sigh. He looked to Betty with a disappointed look on his face and casually snapped the chain on the handcuffs binding her hands behind her back.

Betty scooped up Casey's dropped gun and aimed it at him. "How's the shoulder?" she asked Namor.

"Bullets always hurt some, especially at this range," Namor said, rubbing his shoulder. "I'll probably bruise…"

"Thanks," she said to Namor. "I really needed your help with this one."

Namor nodded, arching just one brow. "Oh, you'll owe me a special favor…to be repaid in the time and place of my choosing."

"How about I buy you another hot dog?"

"Done."


End file.
